


Stroboscopic Sky, A

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst, Episode: s02e02 In the Shadow of Two Gunmen Part II, Episode: s02e10 Noël, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-01
Updated: 2006-05-01
Packaged: 2019-05-30 10:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15094586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: The late-night musings of a troubled Joshua.





	Stroboscopic Sky, A

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

 

Title: A Stroboscopic Sky  
Author: Kira  
Rating: PG-13, for language  
Category: general, Josh POV  
Author's Notes: I started this one awhile ago, and  
didn't really have to motivation to finish it right  
then, but after all the awesome and wonderful feedback  
I receive on Last Song on the Radio, I decided to  
finish this. The song is the translation from a  
Japanese song sung by the best Jpop artist ever, Maaya  
Sakamoto, and is called 'Strobo no Sora', or  
Stroboscopic Sky. After listening to it, I knew I had  
to write a fic to it. This is my first song fic, so  
tell me how I did.  
Summery: The late night musings of a troubled Joshua. 

~~  
It's like the brightness that hits you right after  
coming through a long and narrow tunnel  
For a while it's nothing but a world of pure white  
No-one'll wait for you to prepare yourself emotionally  
When I noticed, it had already begun, a tale with no  
end  
~~ 

Its odd. The more you think about something, the more  
it seems to puzzle you. A weakness of human nature:  
over thinking something just a little too much can  
drive someone insane. 

Or in my case, sane. 

Not that I wasn't before. I just like to think of it  
as a different state of being. I was there for so long  
that to emerge from such a state was � well, not  
exactly easy. Life it self had decided to get back for  
all those people I've mocked and decided to pick on me  
itself. 

Everything's been a little overwhelming in the last  
few weeks since I've returned to normal life. For so  
long I longed for these long days and the work that  
never seemed to end. Even when I was in so much pain I  
couldn't move I wished I could come into work and do  
something to take my mind off of everything. Donna  
says its because I live politics. 

I just say I was bored. 

After being at home for so long, I was thrust back  
into this life that had been mine before, but I felt  
so odd, so out of place there. I found myself tired by  
six o'clock, my eyes heavy and my body aching to  
leave. It seemed only my mind was ready and up to the  
task at hand. And that incompatibility between mind  
and body was what was troubling me. 

I felt that everyone had moved on to bigger things.  
The shooting was in their minds, yet no longer held  
the space in front requiring their immediate  
attention. 

To be to the point, returning to work was totally  
overwhelming. 

Being the type of person I am (or am told I am), I  
said nothing and just continued on with the days,  
trying not to make it apparent that I didn't fit the  
same way anymore. I was a puzzle piece after your  
sister runs over it with a vacuum cleaner. I was part  
of the puzzle, just didn't fit right. 

No one noticed. That is, no one noticed for a while. 

It was a week and a half after I returned that Donna  
walked into my office and shut the door behind her,  
her face painted with the type of look that warns you  
not to frustrate her more. Of course, I'm one who  
enjoys to discover someone's limits and cross the line  
just a bit. What can I say, it's a hobby. 

"Josh, are you alright?" she asked, her voice carrying  
a concerned tone; one I had heard so many times over  
the last three months. 

"Yes, why wouldn't I be?" I asked. I knew what she was  
talking about. The question is, does she know what  
she's talking about? And if so, why should I give her  
any more information than that which she's created  
herself? 

"Do you really want me to answer that?" she replied,  
sitting in one of the guest chairs. I'm really  
considering naming the chair Donna after how many  
times she sits in it a day. 

"I wouldn't have asked a question if I didn't want a  
reply," I quiped, looking down at my desk. Those  
reports are looking very good right now. 

"Answering a question with a question might reveal  
more than a straight answer. What's bothering you?"  
she smiled. The smile seemed to contradict her eyes,  
which were filled with concern. 

"I didn't say anything was bothering me. Are you sure  
you don't need to get your hearing checked?" 

"Well, maybe, since you bellow my name so much, I  
think my eardrums have been permanently damaged." I  
look up and smile at her when she finishes saying  
this. 

"Oh really? Are you saying I caused this damage  
myself?" 

"Yes, Joshua, you've cause damage to my eardrums. Now  
you'll have to do without me until I get them all  
fixed." You can't get eardrums fixed, well, maybe you  
can. I don't know that much about ears, other than you  
hear out of them and women's look nice in earrings,  
very nice. 

"I'll have to cope." 

"Do you really think you'd be able to operate without  
me around?" 

Uh-oh. She's back to being serious. My plan to lead  
her off the sent has failed. 

"Yes, I think I could." 

"I think I've figured out what's wrong," she replies.  
I raised my eyebrows. 

"You have?" Because I haven't really. 

"Yes, I have." 

"Please, enlighten me." I really want to know what  
she's figured out. 

"You weren't ready to come back," she states simply. 

"I was too. See, I'm trying to do work." 

"I didn't say physically, although you're attempts to  
hide you sleepiness are really bad." 

"Really bad?" 

"I'm not the one with the high verbal scores." 

"Okay, now that we've got that settled, I'm going to  
finish what I have been trying to work on for the last  
ten minuets." I looked back down at my papers and try  
to convey the idea that I'm finished talking. She  
sighed and stood, knowing she doesn't stand a chance  
against my stubbornness. And some say it's a curse. As  
she opened the door, she turned her head back towards  
me so I can see her face. 

"Josh, I really wish you'd let me help you." 

~~  
I know  
I know, the weakness I crushed in my hands  
What was that sound that I heard at such a time?  
~~ 

She did help me. She helped me more than she could  
ever imagine. Just because I didn't ask for her help,  
didn't viably accept her help didn't mean I didn't  
have it. Every day she walked in the office and  
smiled, every time she tried to keep up what we had  
before our lives had been turned upside down, every  
time she gave me that concerned look, she was helping  
me. Why couldn't she understand that? Was it just a  
secret I knew? 

Did I want her to know? 

So life went on and I got better. You know what I did?  
I fixed it. I faced my fears and told them to leave; I  
had better things to do. 

Plus, who would want to incur the wrath of Donna Moss  
by not getting better? 

~~  
Where is it coming from?  
Who is calling me to stop?  
That's the sound of life that spilled out from the  
body and pulsates with certainty  
~~ 

It was only after a while that I realized I was  
dependant on my assistant. Now, it's not the kind of  
dependence that most people have on their assistants.  
Honestly, I don't think I'd be able to live without  
her. 

Sometimes, when I'm alone at home and up in the middle  
of the night panting and sweating, I think I can hear  
her voice floating in from the living room, asking if  
I'm okay. See what I mean about dependence? Though, to  
be truthful, if her voice wasn't speaking to me, I  
don't know if I'd make it through the night. 

They might say it's not healthy, but I say without it  
I wouldn't be better. True I still get nightmares and  
such, but I know that they're going to be there  
whether I like it or not. And all I can do is use her  
voice to get through them and wake up the next  
morning. 

If only I'd have a nice cup of steaming hot coffee  
waiting for me when I got to work, then I'd be fully  
awake. 

I don't think anyone really realizes how much coffee  
can be an upper in the morning. True I'm a naturally  
energetic person, but coffee can't hurt anyone. Geeze,  
did they take books away from Von Savant? I don't  
think so. 

~~  
Those who make dreams come true  
Those who are loved  
Are fighting while accepting with all their being  
Joys and equal pains  
~~ 

I'm becoming a little reflective now. I sit in my  
apartment at one in the morning, the TV on CNN, but,  
as always when I'm watching it, the sound is muted and  
all I have to know what's going on is the steaming  
line of headlines across the bottom of the screen. 

I don't need cable, just CNN. 

It was two days ago that Donna asked if I would let  
her help me. I thought all day for a witty comeback  
for that one, but none came to mind, so I left it at  
that, leaving the office at midnight without even  
saying goodbye to her. I think that left her a little  
frazzled, since the next day I couldn't go anywhere  
without her asking where I was going and following me  
there until I had to close the door without her on the  
same side of it as me. I know she was worried, but  
everyone has bad days. I don't need someone watching  
over my shoulder every time my goldfish dies. Okay, I  
don't have a goldfish, but CJ does, and she'd be in a  
bad mood if it died. 

Here's something I've never told Donna: 

About two weeks into my recovery, I had a dream. In  
this dream I was just standing outside somewhere and  
it was nighttime, the moon shining. Donna is standing  
in front of me and telling me the whole shooting never  
happened, that everyone is happy and work is just  
normal. I smile and hug her, thanking her for making  
everything better again. 

I love that dream. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy  
inside. 

It also makes me realize that Donna is fighting just  
as hard as I am to make everything in that dream come  
true. I have to admit that she must really care for me  
a lot for her to do this, to fight my battles with me.  
That, or she really would like that raise. 

I wonder what I did to make her care. 

~~  
It's like the brightness that hits you right after  
coming through a long and narrow tunnel  
From between the clouds the path of a new wind 

What was that sound that unexpectedly knocked at my  
heart?  
~~ 

Then, as I'm reading the recent headlines across the  
bottom of my TV screen, it hits me. 

Maybe there's something more to that warm fuzzy  
feeling. Maybe I care for her the same way she cares  
for me, which is why I haven't asked for her help. She  
doesn't want to hurt me and I don't want to hurt her.  
I feel that if I take her full force into this spiral  
of sanity and insanity that I've been trapped in, I  
might just take her with me. 

But it doesn't look like she'll take no for an answer.  
Seems she has inherited some of my stubbornness. 

Not that's I'm stubborn or anything. 

Groaning, I get up for the couch and assault the  
kitchen, trying to find something to drink. One of the  
drawbacks of only seeing your house for six hours a  
day (at the most) and sleeping most of the time is  
that there really isn't anything edible or drinkable  
there, unless you count the can of cream of mushroom  
soup stuck in the back of a cabinet as something  
edible. I'm not a soup person. It must be left over  
from when Donna was here and insisted on having my  
cabinets fully loaded with all kinds of food. She said  
it was just in case. 

In case of what, I still don't know. 

~~  
It's okay to rely on someone  
It's okay to have more faith  
The sound of life which continuously rings out as if  
to so whisper in my ear  
~~ 

Leaning against the cabinet, I examine the can, the  
slight dent on the top lid from when the groceries  
fell off the table one rainy day. The bags were  
slippery and Donna had put them down before they fell  
out of her hands and the bag containing the large  
assortment of soup slipped right off the table. I was  
laughing for days after that one. 

The ringing phone tears my attention away from the  
dented can, and I place it on the 70's style counter  
before waddling over to the phone. Yes, waddling,  
which means I kind of swayed side to side while taking  
small steps. I'm tired, cranky, and hungry. 

"'lo?" I answer. Hopefully, one earful of my tone will  
intimidate the caller and they'll hang up quickly.  
Pausing for dramatic effect, I patiently await the  
click and pulsing dial tone, but none comes. Instead,  
I hear a disappointed sigh, followed by some sort of  
shift. 

"Josh, what am I going to do with you?" Donna's tired  
yet impervious voice floats though the phone. Knowing  
this conversation is not going to be a normal one for  
this time of night, that being under ten minuets, I  
turn off the light and head towards the couch where I  
can lye down while speaking. 

"Buy me a present?" I retort. Her laugh comes through.  
Good. See, I can be funny at times. 

"Maybe. Are you planning on sleep anytime soon?" 

"Not if people keep calling me this late at night." 

"I knew you'd be awake, and wanted to tell you there's  
a frozen dinner in the back of your freezer." I swear,  
she's psychic, she can read my mind. I peel myself off  
the couch and open the freezer, the woosh of cold air  
blasting me into temporary speechlessness. "I hope you  
know how to operate your microwave," she interjects  
into the silence. 

"I do." 

"Right. Read the instructions on the back before  
guessing how to cook it and ruining it." 

"Whatever." She scoffs on the other side. 

"Did you just whatever me?" 

"Yup." I'm currently engrossed in the different  
instructions printed on the back. You can cook these  
things in the oven? Isn't that just against the  
character of a TV dinner? 

"I call to help you find something to eat and you  
whatever me?" 

"Yes, I do." I'm so cooking this in the microwave. Why  
would I wait 12 minuets for this to cook when I can  
get the same thing in 5? Some people just don't think.

"See if I help you again," she retorts. Leaning  
against the counter again, I pick up the soup can  
while my dinner/snack is cooking (what do you call  
something prepared in a microwave?) and examine it  
again. 

"Thanks," I let out, my voice not much over a whisper.  
"Thanks for being there." I think I've stuck  
something, because Donna takes a sharp breath and  
leaves dead air between us. 

Let me tell you something: I hate dead air. Whether  
its in a conversation in person or on the phone,  
someone always has to be talking. Dead air means  
you've either run out of things to say or, in this  
case, something's gotten deep. I hear that in Japan,  
dead air means the participants are reflecting on what  
has been said, and is a very common part of any  
conversation. I don't think I'd last a week in Japan. 

Maybe that's why I'm never taken with on those kinds  
of trips. 

Shrugging, I move over to watch my food cook, the  
potatoes bubbling a bit as the butter on top of them  
warms up in the waves. I still don't know what this is  
� its not cooking, because that takes a stove or oven  
or something along those lines. This is like microing.  
Yes, that's it, I'm microing my food. 

"Josh," Donna's voice comes though, reminding me that  
I'm on the phone. 

"I'm microing," I reply. 

"You're what?" 

"Its not cooking, its microing. I'm microing my food." 

"Josh, its cooking or reheating. I don't think  
mircoing is a word." 

"Says who? Someone's gotta coin it sometime. I should  
get credit for thinking it up." 

"Okay, Josh." 

"You're not going to steal it, are you?" 

"You can keep microing." 

"Good, because if I find out � " 

"Don't thank me," she interrupts. Why wouldn't I thank  
her? 

"Why not?" Did I ever mention that I say the wrong  
things, or least intelligent things when I'm tired and  
hungry? 

She doesn't say anything. 

"Donna, I'm going to. No long speech or anything,  
because I'm too damn tired for that. So thanks, now,  
can I eat in peace and go to sleep?" 

"Yes, good night, Joshua." I think I can hear her  
smiling on the other side of the phone. She's probably  
sitting on her couch in her flannel pajamas dotted  
with penguins with some ice cream. 

"'nite, Donnatella." She smiles again (I'm guessing),  
then hangs up. 

~~  
The fact that rainbows will disappear  
The fact that there is moist ground  
The miracles that I had always overlooked  
Were shining more beautifully than anything else  
~~ 

I believe that things happen for a reason. Yes, I know  
what you're thinking. Most people believe that a  
person in my position shouldn't believe this, that I  
should be angry with God for what happened to me. I  
am, believe me, but I'm a little angry with the  
insurance company who's coming after me for fifty  
thousand dollars. You'd think I'd have better coverage  
being a White House employee. I don't. Damn. 

My credit now has a big black mark all over it, and  
I'm glad my car's only a few years old and I'm already  
locked into my lease. Imagine if I needed something  
that depended on my credit � it would be hell to get. 

Maybe Donna would co-sign for me. 

That's definably a thought out of left field. Though  
I'm glad she called. My 'snack' is very tasty, and I  
once again voice my support for the whole microwaving  
thing. Why waste time in the oven if you can make it  
just as good in the microwave. Something I should  
remember is that some people don't have microwaves,  
and have to cook it. Poor them. While they're waiting  
for it to cook, they should go buy a microwave. 

I wonder if Donna has a microwave. 

Okay, maybe I have something on my mind. Knowing every  
thought I have is going to be connected to Donna in  
some way, I resolve to go see her. I know what you're  
thinking � it's 1:30 in the morning and highly  
unprofessional. I am a little tired, that's for sure,  
and if I do go over there, I'll be grumpy at work  
tomorrow. 

Oh, hell. I haven't slept well in months. What's one  
more night going to do to me? 

~~  
Oh, I felt like I had been forgiven for being born  
~~ 

This wasn't the best idea. 

I'm sitting outside Donna's door at 2 am, my brown  
overcoat slung over my pajamas. See, I would of  
knocked, but the lights are off and I can't hear  
anything inside. What kind of person would I be if I  
woke her up this late at night? Certainly not a nice  
one, and I'm trying so hard to be just that. Why  
aren't I home, you ask? Because, I have to admit, I  
got out of breath walking here (yes, I walked) in the  
cold weather and don't think I could make it back home  
tonight. 

Its kind of comfortable out here, leaning against the  
door. 

"Hey, you!" someone calls from down the hallway. In  
the dim light I can see a figure approaching me. 

"Umm, hi there," I reply causally, waving with one  
hand. The person comes closer and reveals themselves  
to be Cathryne, Donna's cat-loving and club attending  
roommate. 

"Josh, are you drunk?" she inquires, hands on her  
hips. 

"No, I'm not," I retort. Do they both think so lowly  
of me? Slowly, I struggle to get up, my tiredness  
getting to me as I stumble as I do so. Cathryne  
reaches down to help me up, shaking her head. 

"Are you sure?" she repeats. 

"Yes, Cathryne, I'm sober. Geeze." 

"Its just that you usually arrive at our apartment  
smashed," she confesses, unlocking and opening her  
door. 

"Smashed?" I question, looking up at her from my  
supported position. "Who over 25 uses that anymore?" 

"Josh, I'm only 26," she reveals. Ahh, I knew that � I  
think. It doesn't really matter right now, because  
I've sauntered over to my usual place on the couch and  
think I'm going to sleep for a little bit. Sleep  
sounds very, very good. I knew I shouldn't of come  
over here. 

"Donna, Josh is here," I hear Cathryne announce into  
Donna's room. Oh great. I was sitting outside because  
I didn't want to wake her up, and now Cathryne has to  
go do just that. 

"Josh," Donna mumbles, her blond hair sticking up in  
odd angles as result of just waking up. She is wearing  
those flannel pajamas, just like I thought. "What are  
you doing here?" 

"I � I..." Okay, what am I going to tell her? That I was  
thinking about her and couldn't sleep, so I came over?

"Are you drunk?" she inquires. All right, that's the  
last straw. Do they think that the only reason I'd  
ever come over here was if I were intoxicated? What  
shallow minds they have. Standing slowly, I reach for  
the armrest to steady myself, then stand straight. 

"No, I'm leaving," I declare. 

"Josh, I didn't mean it like that," Donna tries to  
salvage the situation. I shake my head and make my way  
towards the door. 

"No. I've been around for thirty minuets and the first  
thing out of yours and Cathryne's mouths are 'Are you  
drunk?' God forbid I actually came by to see you, or  
needed someone to talk to. So I'm not steady on my  
feet. Forgive me, I'm tired and a little light headed.  
How shallow are the both of you that you would think  
that instantly of me?" Donna's a little taken back and  
Cathryne has made her way from her bedroom to the area  
behind the nook. I can just see the edge of her as she  
stands listening. 

"I'm going home," I finish, twisting the doorknob and  
opening the door. Donna moves from her spot a bit,  
walking towards me. 

"Josh, c'mon, what did you need to talk about?" she  
asks, her voice softer than when she greeted me  
earlier. 

"Its not important," I shrug. Cathryne comes from  
behind her hiding space to stand slightly behind  
Donna. 

"How long were you sitting out there?" she inquires.  
Donna shoots her a look. 

"Sitting where?" she asks both of us. 

"He was sitting outside out door, that's where I found  
him." 

"Josh," she turns back to me, her eyes holding a small  
degree of concern. "You were sitting outside my door?" 

"I didn't want to wake you," I confess at a low level.  
She smiles and moves closer to me. 

"That's so sweet," Cathryne whispers. I see what's  
going on, they're trying to suck me in. I always  
wondered how women got all the dirt on their friends �  
they attack in packs. This reminds me a bit of the  
scene in Jurassic Park when the woman and the  
Australian guy are trying to get to the shed and the  
Australian gets surrounded. He sees one first, then  
the others come out a bam! he's outta there. 

"I'm going home, Donna. I'll see you early tomorrow  
morning," I let out before they can pounce on me. 

"You're a horrible liar," Donna remarks, "and it's  
late." 

"I hadn't noticed," I retort. "Bye." Must. Get. Out.  
Now. I make my getaway out the door and start down the  
dimly lit hallway. Making my way down the stairs, I  
look out the clear glass lining the door to see snow  
falling lazily down to the battered pavement below. 

I think that was thunder. 

Sighing, I pull my coat tighter around me, wish for my  
awesome scarf (did I mention my mother sent it to me?)  
and make my way into the vestibule. A car passes by  
and I recoil � you never know who's out and about in  
this neighborhood, especially this late at night.  
Leaning against the window, I watch the snow fall  
softly onto the thin layer already there. 

I should have told her why I came. It seems that  
lately I've been running from things. Not large  
things, like meetings and such at work, but personal  
things, like talking with people and, well, being  
myself. Granted, I never had much of a social life  
before, but now I don't have one at all. Maybe I have  
to take things easy; slowly make my way back into the  
social track. 

Starting with going back up to Donna's apartment and  
telling her I need a ride home. 

"Josh?" Oh no, I think she's already found me.  
Turning, I see her approach with a blanket wrapped  
around her shoulders and a mug of something in her  
hands. "You walked here, didn't you?" I raise my  
eyebrows. "I didn't see your car outside." 

"Ahh," is all I can say. Donna's a very perceptive  
woman. I'd never say that out loud, but she is, and  
I've noticed. That's just for the record. 

"Want to come up? I can't sleep now, and it doesn't  
look like you can either." 

"Hey, Donna, can I ask you something?" I reply  
instead. She looks at me quizzically, opening the  
inside door to the vestibule to allow me back into the  
warmth of the building. 

"Anything." I smile weakly and walk inside � I'd stay  
in the vestibule, but its kinda cold in there. I told  
you this building should have been condemned long ago.  
The lighting in the halls are so dim you can barley  
see at night, and I'm sure the temperature is supposed  
to differ between the vestibule and inside near the  
stairway. Did I mention the elevator went out last  
week for the third time this month? 

"This building sucks," I comment aloud. Donna laughs. 

"That didn't sound like a question," she retorts. 

"That's because it wasn't. I'm so glad you've finished  
the fourth grade. The ability to distinguish a  
statement from a question is important in life." 

"Har har, Joshua. And I came down here to rescue you  
from the cold." 

"You didn't � refer to my previous statement. Your  
building sucks, including the heat." 

"The heat is fine," she states. I scoff and start up  
the stairs. As usual, she follows, and soon falls in  
step beside me. 

"Right, and you're wearing a blanket because?" 

"Its cold." 

"Exactly." 

"I bet you wear a blanket around your apartment." 

"Nope, I have a robe," I smirk. 

"You mean that tattered piece of cloth you call a  
robe?" 

"I've had that since I was in college." 

"And it shows," she smiles this time, opening the door  
from the stairway to her floor. It's a gift from above  
that she lives on the second floor. I stop in the  
doorway and look at her, then at my shoes. They're so  
dirty, I should really clean them. 

"Do you believe that what you've done in a past life  
comes to haunt you in the next?" Donna's smile slides  
off her face. 

"No, Josh, of course not." She places a comforting  
hand on my shoulder. "Of course not! How could you  
think such a thing?" 

"Yeah," I said instead, running a hand through my  
hair, "That's what I thought." 

"Josh, you did nothing wrong, nothing. It wasn't your  
fault, and nothing you did in a previous life is  
justification for these events." 

"Okay." 

"You look tired, maybe you should take tomorrow off,"  
she suggests. Me, take off work? Right, that's like,  
like, well, I can't think of an analogy right now, but  
it would show how much that just doesn't fit. "I know  
what you're thinking, so you are going to take a day  
off." 

"Noon?" I try. She shakes her head. 

"Nope." 

"One?" I try again. 

"Three to Nine," she forcibly suggests. 

"Tw-" 

"Take it or leave it, buster," she interrupts. 

"C'mon," I start. I can't believe my assistant is  
dictating to me when I can go to work. Of course, I  
must keep in mind Donna's not the normal assistant. 

"You okay on the couch?" 

"Yeah, I'm fine." We start to her door but I pause  
just outside. Cathryne's going to be inside, waiting  
to pounce on me again, though it seems she already  
won. 

"You know, maybe what you've done in the present saved  
you," Donna comments, opening the door. "You're  
alive." 

~~  
Those who make dreams come true  
Those who are loved  
Are fighting while accepting with all their being  
Joys and equal pains  
~~ 

Every time I've slept on this couch, I've been, well,  
drunk, and have never had this kind of opportunity to  
realize just how cushy it is. It is. I think that as  
couches age, they become cushier and cushier until  
they just fade away into pieces of moldy stuffing.  
Bouncing a bit, I grin and drink some more tea (Donna  
doesn't waste her coffee by drinking it at night). Let  
me tell you something, I'm not a tea person. Tea is  
for women who talk over brunches about their kids and  
how they got a stain out of their shirt in the  
laundry. 

"Stop bouncing, you're going to spill your tea," Donna  
tells me, sitting in a chair near me. 

"So?" 

"Then I'll have to spend time cleaning it up." 

"Again, I must say, so?" 

"Ugg, Joshua, you're impossible!" To this, all I can  
do is smile. 

"I know," I gloat, taking another drink of my tea. She  
shakes her head and finishes hers, standing to take  
the empty mug into the kitchen. I hold my half-full  
one up for her to take, but she brushes on by,  
ignoring the upheld cup. "Hey!" 

"Bring in your own glass. What do I look like, a  
maid?" I should have expected as much. Standing, I  
follow her in and place the mug on the counter next to  
the sink. Donna automatically picks it up to clean it,  
leaving me to lean against the counter and watch her  
work. 

"What are we going to do now?" I ask, stifling a yawn.  
It doesn't go un-noticed, and she dries her hands  
before pushing me towards the couch. 

"Sleep," she yawns, "because I'm way too tired to do  
anything else." 

"C'mon," I whine. I can't sleep, and I don't want her  
to know that. She shakes her head, making her way to  
her bedroom. "Fine, fine, whatever," I comment, and  
resolve myself to lye on the couch and stair up at the  
ceiling. The pillow and blanket I usually use are at  
my feet, but I don't move to pull them up to me.  
Instead, I use them as a great footrest as I examine  
the water stains above. They remind me of a fractal,  
the pattern repeating again and again as it spirals  
down the center, creating designs that could only come  
from nature. 

Indeed they do, caused by the tenet above them who  
always lets their tub overflow. Why they placed a  
bathroom above a living room is beyond me, but Donna  
claims that these apartments, built during World War  
II, have character because of their odd layouts. No  
wonder they're cheap. 

I can argue that my apartment was built before hers  
and is much nicer, but she claims it doesn't have any  
character. She says it's too dark, which is why I  
don't like it there. I love my apartment, and I've  
never said anything against that. Maybe that's why I  
can't sleep there anymore. I can't seem to sleep here  
either. 

Groaning, I reach over and pluck the TV remote from  
the table and turn the TV on, careful to keep the  
volume down. Ahh, it's my favorite infomercial on  
channel 23, the one about the vacuum hair cutter. I've  
been thinking about purchasing it, but constantly  
remind myself that I'd never have the time to use it.  
Heck, I can't remember the last time I got a haircut. 

Normally I'd be concerned about not getting any sleep,  
but since my warden has decided to restrict the number  
of hours I'm allowed to work tomorrow, I think I can  
deal. 

The infomercial ends and I click off the TV, hoping  
that I might be able to get a little bit of sleep  
tonight. It's now that I pull the blanket over myself  
and place the pillow under my head in a haphazard way.

Donna's apartment is so homey � I think it put me  
right to sleep. 

~~  
It's like the brightness that hits you right after  
coming through a long and narrow tunnel  
For a while it's nothing but a world of pure white.  
~~ 

Here's a moment of reflection, as if I haven't been  
reflecting on things already. Emotions and the  
reflections of self aren't exactly my thing, I tend to  
stray away from them in the fear that I might do or  
say something I'll regret later. 

I think I might be okay. Really, I do. Before it was  
too early for me to return, but it wasn't too early  
because I hadn't recovered mentally already, which I  
haven't, it was too early because I wasn't ready to  
jump back into the relationships I'd had before. While  
recovering, I was kept away from everyone, and used  
this excuse to distance myself from everyone. I don't  
know if you can imagine how I felt after being  
assaulted, as I did, how I didn't want to see anyone. 

In true, I didn't want anyone to see me. 

I don't like people seeing my weaknesses. I'm the big  
strong guy full of himself. I'm not a weakling who  
can't even walk or, as of now, sleep. Weaknesses set  
you up for attacks of character and integrity, two  
things I can't afford to be attacked on with the job I  
hold. These ideas of attacks from enemies filtered  
into ideas of being attacked by friends. 

A fear of rejection. 

Bingo, I think I finally solved all my problems. At  
least, if I were speaking to anyone right now. I don't  
think I've solved them yet, but I have a pretty good  
idea. 

You know, sleep comes easier now. Especially since I  
know Donna is close. I'm ready to face the day  
tomorrow, even though I'm only going to be there for  
six hours. 

Well, that's what she thinks.

  


End file.
